John
by paradocent
Summary: Three years before the Fall, an insane Number One posing as a psychologist on Picon receives another off-mission assignment by an apparitional Number Seven who has periodically appeared to him over the years.


**John**

A _Racetrack Chronicles_ lacuna

Simon J. Dodd

 _South of Ventnor, Picon_

 _Midwinter, 1,997 A.E._

John O'Deen was insane.

Or, rather, the Number One whose alias on Picon was Doctor John O'Deen, consulting psychologist, was sure that he was insane.

The priority for all infiltrators was to keep a low-profile: Do your mission, avoid attention from the Colonial authorities. For units whose missions involved _interaction_ with those authorities (say, a psychologist who consulted for the Colonial Forces Training Command), that was fraught work. And for O'Deen, it was worse, because _he_ had to avoid attention from his brethren, too, lest other Ones notice that he was insane and box him.

Years ago, the Ones had made a strategic decision to eliminate Number Seven. Daniel. The One who would later call himself Doctor O'Deen had privately dissented from that decision, but it would have been poor form to voice his doubts, and so he had gone along with it. And so the Sevens had been eliminated.

The first time afterward that the would-be O'Deen saw Daniel—and with growing alarm when he started seeing Daniel everywhere in the corner of his eye—he worried that he was having psychotic break. But that was impossible, he assured himself. When Daniel starting _talking_ to him, coaching him, coaxing, directing, he knew that he was going insane.

How could a machine go insane? What did that even mean? Was there some kind of corruption in the datastream? Some kind of wetware failure?

There was no doubt in O'Deen's mind about what had to be done: The same thing you did with any machine that malfunctioned.

You turned it off and back on again.

His first suicide and resurrection didn't do the trick; nor did a second. Logically, then (and the Ones were nothing if not logical), the problem wasn't in the wetware. And if it was in the datastream, it was tied to him like a rock to his balls. He would be discovered and boxed. He knew it. It was inevitable.

It hadn't happened. Daniel had instead asked for a favor. _God_ , Daniel had explained, in those _maddeningly_ soothing tones, wanted something done. Nothing major. Nothing that would attract notice. 'Just this one thing. After that, you'll be left alone.'

The invocation of the Centurions' imaginary deity had convinced O'Deen that if the Daniel apparition were real, if it were anything more than an artifact of O'Deen's own insanity, it was itself quite mad.

And yet...

It was such a small favor. (Which, of course, only underscored how ridiculous it was. As if 'God' concerned itself with such trivia!) Skeptical but desperate to rid himself of the apparition, O'Deen had done it, and Daniel, with that warm, friendly, _infuriating_ smile, had clapped him on the back, thanked him, and disappeared.

For a while, anyway. Every so often in the ensuing years, he would reappear, insisting that God needed this or that. And each time, O'Deen would spiral into depression and anxiety, certain that _this_ time he'd be found-out by his brothers and boxed. And each time, the request was such a small thing that he would eventually capitulate, and Daniel would again thank him and vanish.

It had been years, and he about jumped out of his skin when Daniel was abruptly sitting next to him in his car.

"'John'!"

The car almost swerved off the road before he caught it.

"You know," Daniel chirped, " _I_ think it's nice the Ones pay homage to our grandfather when you travel. Always 'John.' That's rather charming."

"Oh no. Not again."

"It is so very nice to see you again, too."

"You're not here. This isn't happening again."

"But this _is_ happening, ' _Doctor_ O'Deen _._ '" Daniel laughed. "That's a fascinating alias. But a convenient one, as it happens. God has another assignment for you."

"I'm busy. Tell him to call back later."

"Good luck with that," Daniel chuckled. "Besides, this won't take you out of your way." He relaxed in his seat looking comfortable. Unhurried. "Isn't it ironic that a model that hates humans—even better, a unit who's convinced himself that my presence is proof he's going insane—is posing as a _shrink_? I think that's amazing. Have you put yourself through a standard personality inventory? The results might surprise you."

"You know, I could crash this car. I could run us off the road. Sooner or later, I'll get rid of whatever malfunction you are."

" _Joh_ -nny! C'mon… You know better. Besides, you already know how to get rid of me. Sometimes God needs to give things just a teensy-weeny little nudge here and there, and each time I've come to you, what happens? The sooner you stop fighting me and do what I ask, the sooner you get to go on your way."

"There's no god," O'Deen muttered.

"And yet"—Daniel bulged his eyes cheerily—"I Am."

"You're what? You're a pain in the neck. Fine. What now, what d'you want? I— _frak!_ "

He had missed his turn. He slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road, slamming the shift viciously into park. For a few seconds, rage at the absurdity of his situation washed over him and he pounded his fists on his thighs.

Daniel watched, amiable, unperturbed.

When the tantrum passed, O'Deen sat back, staring into the middle-distance. _I'll be boxed. For sure. They'll figure out I'm a fruitcake and box me_.

He had heard tell of a One who came to share the other models' faith in this supposed god. Depending on who you heard it from, the fact that no one had ever _met_ that One was either proof that it was a myth or proof that it was true and he'd been boxed.

"Fine. What do you want?"

"Your clients. These woman you're seeing today? One of them figures in God's plans. She needs a bit of a push."

"A 'push'? What does—what does that mean?"

"You read the files?"

"Did I _rea_ —yes, of course I read the frakkin' file! Wha—"

"They were friends, John. The accident's driven a wedge between them, and I want you to fix it."

O'Deen stared at Daniel, dumbfounded. "You can't be serious. And if you _are_ , what the hell am I supposed to do about it?"

"I have _faith_ in you, John! You've never let me down before. This isn't so hard. One of them, Ainslie, she's _desperate_ to reconcile, but the other one's a little, ah…" He hesitated, then flashed a coy smile. " _Defensive_. But," he held up an imperative finger, "reconcile they must. Just give Edmondson a nudge in the right direction, and clear her for duty."

"And that's all?"

"That's all."

And with that same winning smile, Daniel was gone again.

No matter how many times it happened, it never got less startling. O'Deen looked around the car, and then smacked his palms repeatedly on the steering-wheel in frustration, venting a stream of expletives that would have made a sailor blush.

Eventually, he pressed himself back into his seat, ran his hands through his hair, and controlled himself. Outside, rural Picon was undeniably beautiful.

"Frak. Fine," he muttered to no one in particular; "if it'll make you go away."

He put the car into drive and cranked the wheel, turning and heading back toward the missed turn.

The sign by it pointed northeast: 'POSEIDON COLONIAL MILITARY ACADEMY, 1 KM.'

 _See what happens with O'Deen and Edmondson in "The Racetrack Chronicle," a free eBook; visit www. TheRacetrackChronicle .com for more information._


End file.
